


A Song About Pirates

by clockworkouroboros



Category: The Witcher (TV), Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types, Wiedźmin | The Witcher Series - Andrzej Sapkowski
Genre: Alternate Universe - Pirate, Canon-Typical Violence, M/M, Once i get more written, Slow Burn, longfic, more tags will be added, probably, we’re in the early stages of this fic bbys
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-03-31
Updated: 2020-07-10
Packaged: 2021-03-01 02:48:58
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 8
Words: 17,017
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23417737
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/clockworkouroboros/pseuds/clockworkouroboros
Summary: Jaskier decided — and it really doesn’t matter why, honestly it doesn’t, he’d rather not talk about it, but that’s because it’s so boring, honestly — that it would be a good idea to book passage on a merchant ship. The sea air would do him good, and besides, he’d be able to write some wonderful songs while onboard.He really wasn’t planning on being taken prisoner by pirates. Especially not the most famous, feared pirate sailing the seas: the White Wolf.(Title taken from the lyrics of Not Yet/Love Run by The Amazing Devil.)
Relationships: Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion, Other Relationship Tags to Be Added
Comments: 116
Kudos: 271





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> The idea came to me like a lightning bolt and I had to write it. A quick warning: this isn’t following even a vague AU version of the plot of the books, this is its own thing. I still haven’t read all the books, although I’m working on it! But I will be including characters who show up in the books but have not (yet) made appearances in the Netflix show. Eventually.

Really, it was a beautiful view. The sky was cornflower blue, puffy cumulus clouds drifting lazily across the sky, wispy cirrus high above, the sun beaming down on the turquoise waters, a slight breeze ruffling Jaskier’s hair.

He supposed he should be grateful that he was outside. After all, the air in the cabins was still and stuffy, and the warmth of the sun ensured that it would be stiflingly hot inside, and that, combined with the movement of the ship underneath him, always spelled motion sickness.

Thing was, it was difficult to be grateful at being out in the sun when your hands were tied behind your back with a thick length of rope, and you were being led by the buccaneers who’d boarded and sunk the ship you were onboard, and you were now being taken to the captain. Jaskier still wasn’t certain why they hadn’t just killed him outright. He supposed they’d taken a look at his clothes — nice clothes, expensive clothes, still clean, despite being at sea for three weeks now — and decided to hold him hostage. Or maybe they’d decided he was an important person, and the captain had wanted to kill any of the important people. Or maybe they’d decided they felt sorry for this poor man who was very obviously not a sailor, and were going to take him back to a port and let him go free. Or maybe (and now his mind veered in the opposite direction) they were going to keep him as a slave and force him to do all sorts of horrible things.

_ Focus, Jaskier. _ He was alive, and right now, that was all that mattered. The rope chafed at his wrists, and he winced just thinking about how red and raw they would be afterwards. If he ever got out of it. He could imagine it now, huddled in the corner of a dirty, rat-infested brig, his lovely clothes ruined, his wrists rubbed raw and bleeding from the rope that continued to keep him from escaping to freedom, spending each day (although did day have any meaning in such a place, where the walls had never seen daylight?) wishing desperately for a change of heart from the captain, a cruel man, scarred and mustachioed, with hooks for hands, or hoping against all hope that his family back at home would be able to pay the ransom that the evil captain was demanding.

No. He needed to focus. Something he struggled with at the best of times. It was something that would be almost impossible right now, given the events of the past half-hour, and how quickly everything had gone to shit.

The other ship had been spotted, but didn’t appear to be flying any flag, so the captain had ordered the sailors to be on their guard, but he couldn’t do much else. It was a merchant vessel, laden with goods, not guns.

Of course, all hell broke loose when the buccaneers (at least, Jaskier assumed they were buccaneers. Surely they weren’t being attacked by outright  _ pirates, _ were they? If they were, all hope was lost. He may as well wrest himself away from his captors and throw himself into the sea.) boarded the ship, guns blazing and cutlasses swinging. (Actually, there had been a remarkable absence of cutlasses, but if Jaskier ever lived to tell this story to anyone else, he’d be damned if he didn’t include some proper sword fights, just to make it seem like a proper pirate story. What was the point of becoming a pirate or buccaneer or whatever these guys were if you didn’t get to swing a cutlass around every now and then?)

He’d run and hidden while the fight had ensued, cowering behind some barrels below deck, hoping that he wouldn’t be found. The captain had told him to do so right from the beginning, when they’d first embarked on this voyage.

“Lad,” he’d said, even though Jaskier hadn’t been considered a lad for years, “I have to warn you, there’s a chance we’ll be attacked on this voyage.”

“Really?” Jaskier had asked, feeling his eyes widen. “Did you do something to annoy a pirate lord, or steal cursed treasure, or–”

The captain had let out a gruff laugh, his suntanned, weatherbeaten face crinkling in amusement. “Pirates are always a danger unless you’re a warship, boy,” he’d replied. “But there isn’t no such thing as a pirate lord. There’s always danger from pirates and buccaneers, and even greater danger from the mistress.”

Jaskier’s eyebrows shot up in surprise.

“The  _ sea, _ lad,” the captain had quickly added, and he raised his hands into the air, like he couldn’t believe he was talking to someone who didn’t refer to the sea as “Mistress.” “Hurricanes can blow up, and even then, you can get storms near as bad, lightning that can crack a ship in half. Say a prayer to Melitele before we go, eh?”

Frankly, Jaskier didn’t know what Melitele could do about hurricanes, storms, pirates, or the sea monsters that the captain insisted didn’t exist, but which Jaskier couldn’t help but think did. All of these things seemed decidedly out of her jurisdiction.

“Now, before I forget,” the captain had said, changing the subject from storms and tempests, “if we  _ do _ get attacked, I don’t expect a man like yourself to be much use against pirates, so go hide if you can, and if the ship goes down, go down with it. It’s better to rest eternal in the sea than to be captured by some of them pirates as sail the oceans.”

Of course, Jaskier had, in the months since then, idly considered what he would do if pirates attacked. He had decided that he would swoop in, sword flashing brightly in the sunlight (or glinting in the pale moonlight), and single-handedly save the day. He’d kick the evil, cartoonishly mustachioed pirate captain, firmly in the chest, and he’d topple overboard, falling with a splash into the ocean, never again to menace the good sailors of honest merchant vessels.

When the buccaneers had attacked, though, Jaskier had followed the captain’s advice and hidden. He was a coward at heart, and he knew that, but he was also a great romantic, and there was nothing he’d have liked better than to come swooping in, all swashbuckling and dashing, and save the ship. His sense of self-preservation had won out, along with his common sense reminding him of how much he’d hated those fencing lessons his parents had made him take as a child and teenager. He’d been atrocious at it, really.

He’d stopped following the captain’s advice once he was caught by buccaneers, though. The sounds of the battle had begun to die away, leaving an ominous silence hanging over the ship like an omen, and Jaskier had remained still, hoping that his limbs wouldn’t cramp up, folded as they were into this space that was really far too tiny for him.

And then the pirates — no, they were buccaneers, they had to be, they had to report to some monarch, they couldn’t just be bloodthirsty murderers — had come below deck to haul off goods and spices and the fine silks they’d picked up to bring back to Cintra, and they’d moved some barrels and boxes and uncovered Jaskier.

He still didn’t know why they hadn’t just killed him. Next thing he knew, he was being held at gunpoint (not swordpoint, which was very disappointing, if a relief just in terms of keeping his doublet from snagging) and another pirate was tying his hands behind his back with a thick length of rope, the same rope that was now chafing most irritatingly on his wrists. He’d tried asking them where they were taking him, and they’d snapped at him to shut up, and when they’d brought him to the edge of the ship, he’d really thought they were going to throw him overboard, but they’d just marched him back over to the pirate ship. No, not a pirate ship. They were buccaneers. They had to be. Buccaneers held people for ransom, pirates killed. They couldn’t be pirates.

But they knocked on the door of the captain’s quarters, and a moment later, the door opened, and Jaskier was shoved inside, and the door shut behind him.

It took him a moment before his eyes adjusted to the dimmer light. There were windows, allowing sunlight to pour in, but it was now dappled and filtered, dimmer. The air was still, but surprisingly cool.

He’d been expecting an obviously piratical evil villain, all dark curls and mustache and hooks for hands. Maybe a peg leg, or a parrot perched on his shoulder. An eye patch, a large hat with a jaunty feather, a sneering expression, a brace of pistols.

But as his eyes adjusted, he gasped, without meaning to. The captain was wearing ordinary clothes — ordinary for a sailor, anyway — and no hat. He had no eyepatch, but his eyes were the most extraordinary color, like liquid gold. At his waist, Jaskier could see the hilt of a sword — not a cutlass, much to his disappointment, although he supposed a sword was better than no swords. A pistol sat on a desk farther back in the room, but it was clearly partway through being cleaned. The captain, Jaskier suspected, had contributed to the fighting, but let the crew unload the  _ Posada. _

He was tall, taller than Jaskier, even if it was only by a little bit, and he was broad-shouldered, clearly muscular underneath his loose black shirt. His hair was straight and long and white-blond, closer to white than blond, in fact, and although most of it looked fine, there was a conspicuous dried clump of what looked like blood on a section of hair falling over his shoulder. He looked Jaskier up and down, hand resting loosely on the hilt of his sword, clearly not feeling threatened. It was almost a lazy stare, the way a cat toys with a mouse.

“Who the fuck are you?” the captain asked.

“Ah! Well, I’m glad you asked that,” Jaskier said, his voice considerably brighter than he felt. He bowed, ever so slightly, and resisted the urge to stick his hand out. Not that it mattered whether he resisted the urge or not, since there was a bloody thick rope holding his hands where they were. “I was a passenger on the ship back there, not a sailor, and after the fighting ended, well, I was discovered, and your crew marched me back here, where I will presumably come to the end of my life, such as it is. I wish I’d lived a bit longer, but I suppose I shall have to rest knowing that it was ended by such a mighty hand as yours.” Jaskier realized he was babbling, but he wasn’t about to stop. Maybe he’d strike on something that would be the key to his survival.

The captain looked at him blankly, almost angrily, his mouth set firm. He grunted, then said, “But who the fuck are you?”

Jaskier sighed. “Call me Jaskier,” he tried. He wondered who this buccaneer was working for.

“Is that your name?”

“It’s close enough.” Jaskier paused, waiting for a response, but when he got none, he continued. “Come on, do you mean to tell me pirates  _ don’t _ have scary names and epithets by which they go? You can’t tell me that Blackbeard was christened Blackbeard at birth. I mean, it would be ridiculous, a hairless little baby, being named Blackbeard! Surely pirates, of all people, would be the most understanding of someone who doesn’t want to go by his true name.”

The captain let out another grunt, but this one was softer. Less of a grunt, more of a  _ hmm. _ “Or maybe pirates use their own names,” he said, “and everyone else imposes names on them.” He looked Jaskier up and down again, then said, “Turn around.”

“What?”

The captain nodded at him. “You heard me.”

Jaskier turned around, wondering if this was the end. He’d tried his best, done his utmost to keep this from happening. And really, he couldn’t think of a finer specimen of a man to kill him. He’d always assumed he’d be killed, anyway. His lifestyle rather encouraged that, and he’d rather be murdered than die of syphilis.

He waited for the ring of steel being drawn from its scabbard, but it didn’t come. And then he felt, rather than heard, a tugging at the rope on his wrists, and then it fell away entirely.

He turned back around slowly, rubbing his wrists gently, to see the captain slipping a knife into his boot. “I suppose I should thank you,” Jaskier said, stammering slightly, glancing from his wrists (which were, as he suspected, very red) and the captain.

“I don’t like talking to bound men,” the captain replied shortly. “Sit down,” he added, gesturing at a chair near the desk. He turned, too, and began walking back towards the desk, and as he did so, a silver medallion fell out of his shirt, a medallion with an etching of an animal on it.

Jaskier didn’t know much about pirates, he’d admit, but there were some that everyone knew and feared, even when you were from the little landlocked area called Lettenhove.

“Oh, fuck,” he breathed, before he could stop himself. “You’re the White Wolf.”


	2. Chapter 2

There was a long moment of silence. Jaskier could see the captain’s hand, the one that was resting on his sword, tighten briefly, then relax. If he was surprised or felt threatened or anything else, he didn’t show it, his face still in the same position it had been from the moment Jaskier’s eyes had adjusted to the light enough to see it. 

When Jaskier was a small boy and he would get stuck in a foul mood, the nanny would tell him that if he kept his face in the same position too long, it would get stuck like that. He’d known even then that it was a lie, a ruse in an attempt to get him to stop scowling, but that hadn’t stopped him from attempting, time and time again, to get his features stuck in grotesque positions. It had never worked, but he’d found a lot of joy as a six-year-old going up to Nanny with a weird face and telling her that it had gotten stuck like that. He hadn’t thought of that in years, but now he remembered, and he wondered if maybe the White Wolf had kept his face in the same expression too long and gotten it stuck like that.

And then the White Wolf sank into another chair, this one behind the desk. He looked… relaxed. Jaskier wasn’t sure if that was the right word. He was sitting, leaning to one side, elbow on the desk, and Jaskier got the feeling that, if he wanted to, this guy could kill him in two seconds.

This wasn’t just Jaskier’s imagination. He may have had a tendency to embellish stories, add his own little romantic flourishes, sure, but he couldn’t add to the stories about the White Wolf. That may have been Jaskier’s favorite name for the famous pirate (and he  _ was _ a pirate, not a buccaneer), mainly because, if he just thought of the name and not the person to whom it was attached, it sounded like it could be the name of a knight or a dragon slayer or something, but it was not the  _ only _ name that existed for him. Rumor had it that the White Wolf had started his career by killing an entire town, then stealing a rowboat and running away. There was still an outstanding warrant for the Butcher of Blaviken, even though there wasn’t anyone left alive from Blaviken to identify him.

Yes, even the tiny area Jaskier was from, Lettenhove, had heard of this pirate, and Jaskier could tell stories for  _ hours _ about what a backwater Lettenhove was. No one had heard of the place, and no one there had heard of anything happening elsewhere. Fashions were at least seven years out of date (Jaskier had calculated it once when he was at university and discovered that, at that point, at least, the fashions in Lettenhove were behind by eight years and three months), and most people never travelled farther than a day’s journey in their entire life.

So, yes. Jaskier was reasonably worried about possibly being cut in half by a very scary, very infamous pirate. But the White Wolf just fixed him with a golden stare (and oh, Jaskier could compose verse upon verse about that stare, those eyes were  _ mesmerizing) _ and said, “Yeah. I’m the White Wolf.” He paused, but Jaskier got the sense that he wasn’t done speaking, and held his tongue. Even though he  _ really _ wanted to start talking. “Or,” said the White Wolf, still watching him with those bright eyes, “as everyone else on this ship calls me, Geralt.”

“What, not captain? Or sir, at least?” The words were out of Jaskier’s mouth before he had a chance to think about them and decide that it probably was a bad idea to say them out loud.

There was a moment of silence. Jaskier hated it. He hated most silences. Had to fill it with words, with talking, with singing. And then he remembered.

But before he could say anything, Geralt finally ended the silence. He leaned back, ever so slightly, and said, “Do you have any idea why you were brought to me and not just killed?”

“Oh. Ah. Are you asking because you don’t know and are trying to figure it out yourself, or is this a rhetorical question and I find out that you have some grand plan or scheme or something?” He was babbling again, slightly, and he suddenly realized he was picking at the hems of his sleeves. He made a conscious effort to stop.

Geralt grunted.

Well, that was most helpful. Most  _ un _ helpful, actually. If the captain weren’t so physically intimidating (downright  _ terrifying, _ actually), Jaskier would have been tempted to laugh or tease the man, but as it was, he figured he should try to stay on his good side. If he  _ had _ a good side.

“Well, I suppose I was brought before you because you’re the captain, right?” Jaskier made a show of nonchalantly looking around the cabin. A hammock hung in the corner, a map was nailed to one of the walls, and the only furniture in the room was the desk and two chairs. It was nothing like the captain’s quarters on the  _ Posada, _ which Jaskier had been fortunate enough to see almost every day. The captain had taken a liking to him and invited him to dine regularly, instead of with the crew, and Jaskier had accepted, because it didn’t do to get on the bad side of the man in charge. (And it wasn’t that he disliked the captain, it was just that he also liked the crew of the  _ Posada. _ And now they were all dead. Killed by the man sitting in front of him, or his crew.)

“Yes, but why didn’t they just kill you?” Geralt asked again.

Jaskier shrugged. “Must be my roguish good looks, dazzling intellect, incredible songwriting skills, and vivacious personality.” He flashed a smile, even as he felt a twinge in his stomach. How could he sit here and, and, and  _ flirt _ with the man who had killed the crew of the  _ Posada? _ Sure, he wasn’t great friends with the majority of them (they had looked down on a university-educated poet as somehow lesser), but they’d still talked and joked back and forth, and the captain had been a kind enough man, and now they were all dead. All dead.

Still, if he got upset with the White Wolf, he might join the captain and crew among the ranks of the dead, and now that he seemed to be out of danger, he was rather keen on keeping his life, thank you very much, and it seemed like he might be able to talk his way out of this.

To his surprise, Geralt smirked, letting out a noise that was part grunt and part laugh. It was a fascinating smirk; Jaskier could stare at it for hours. Underneath the day’s worth of scruff, only one side of his mouth twitched upwards, revealing white teeth, pointy canines bright in the afternoon sun. “Ah, yes,” he said sarcastically. “My crew. Refined gentlemen, all of us.” He sat up, leaned forward in his chair slightly. “I think you were hiding, and they didn’t know what to do with you.”

“Do you make a habit of killing prisoners in your quarters?” Jaskier asked nervously.

“Why should I? It’s senseless and wasteful. Don’t kill people unless it’s necessary.”

“Oh, yes, because Blaviken was necessary,” Jaskier said, before he could stop himself. 

Geralt’s hand curled into a fist, and Jaskier winced, expecting the sword to be drawn at any minute to cut his head off, or perhaps the captain would take the knife from his boot and stab him, or perhaps he’d take his huge hands and wrap them around his throat and throttle him. Or perhaps he’d finish cleaning that gun that was sitting on the desk, load it, and shoot him. Jaskier got the feeling that any of these possibilities would be quick and easy for the man sitting in front of him.

Kind of sexy. But it really shouldn’t be.

“Blaviken…” Geralt said, and Jaskier could actually  _ hear _ the restraint in his voice, “is not something that should be brought up here.”

“Ah, got it,” Jaskier replied quickly. “But, you know, I would like to know if you’re going to kill me. No hard feelings if you do, I understand, but you see, I’m rather attached to my life and I’d hate to lose it. Not that it would be anything but the greatest honor to be killed by the White Wolf himself, of course, but I’d rather been assuming it would be any one of a number of other people to kill me, not an infamous pirate whose gruesome deeds will probably go down in legend. Oh, and that reminds me, I can  _ ensure _ those gruesome deeds will go down in legend, if you want — or, really, any deeds, but I can’t promise nice things will catch on. I mean, who wants to listen to a song about the White Wolf, who gave a new doll to a little girl because her old doll broke? Absolutely no one, but, but if you add something in about how the White Wolf–”

“Jaskier.”

“–broke down the… what, wh–what, oh…” Jaskier shut up.

“I don’t want songs sung about me. Good or bad. And just call me Geralt.”

“But are you going to kill me?”

Geralt cocked his head to the side and watched Jaskier for a moment. “No,” he finally decided. “Not yet.”

Before Jaskier could even come up with a reply to that, though, Geralt continued. “What were you doing on the _ Posada?” _

“I was a passenger. Just out to have a good time, see the ocean, maybe land in some new and exciting places,” Jaskier replied, a little too quickly.

Geralt narrowed his eyes, but didn’t say anything.

“It’s true!” He knew he was protesting and that it would look bad if he protested too much, but it didn’t matter why he’d left, did it? He wasn’t a stowaway, so it didn’t matter. The captain of the  _ Posada _ had left that well alone. Thankfully. Not, of course, that there was anything to it. 

“And why are you wearing a magical talisman?”

What? He  _ wasn’t _ wearing a magical talisman. He didn’t believe in them, not really. (Oh, he wished they worked, and maybe there were some that were actually real, but he wasn’t going to part with money over something that was obviously fraudulent.) “I don’t have any talismans,” he said slowly.

He was fixed with a look that very plainly said the captain didn’t believe him in the slightest. “It isn’t wise to lie to a man with the power of life and death over you,” Geralt said.

“I thought you said you weren’t going to kill me, though!” Jaskier said, scrabbling backwards slightly in his chair. Maybe putting extra space between himself and the captain would be helpful.

“I said not yet.” The White Wolf stood up, now, taller than Jaskier and twice as broad. “Doesn’t mean I can’t change my mind. Why are you wearing an amulet?”

Jaskier let out a shaky breath, wondering just how much more of this he’d have to endure. In the past half-hour, he’d lost the entire crew of the  _ Posada, _ been captured by pirates — by the most infamous and feared pirate in the world — and was now having his life threatened over a nonexistent magical charm bracelet.

“I already told you, I’m not,” he said. “I wouldn’t be so foolish as to lie in a situation like this. In case you hadn’t noticed, I’d rather not die young, at least, not like this.”

“Why were you on the  _ Posada?” _ Geralt asked.

“Well, funny story,” Jaskier said, thinking on his feet. “Ah, well, you see, there was a spot of bother between me and some other good folk, and I thought, why, I should get away for a little while, you know, see the world and meet new people and all that, so I tried to find a ship, and the  _ Posada _ let me book passage just for a pleasure cruise, and then you attacked and now everyone except me is dead.” He paused. “Wh–why do you think I’m wearing a talisman of some kind?”

“Call it a guess,” Geralt said. He’d listened to the rambling not-quite-answer with a stony expression, although that seemed to be his normal face. He leaned forward, over the desk, grabbed at Jaskier’s doublet.

“Now, there’s a time and a place–” Jaskier began to say, but Geralt found the corded pendant Jaskier always wore, and he pulled at it, trying to get it to snap. “Ow! Ow, hey, don’t do that!” he protested. “That was a  _ gift, _ look, I’ll just take it off, stop–!”

Geralt let go of the pendant and Jaskier pulled it off, over his head, then dropped it in Geralt’s outstretched palm.

“This,” said Geralt, “is an amulet.”

Jaskier gaped. He couldn’t help it. He was speechless for a moment, his mouth open in an  _ O, _ like some sort of fish, and then he shut his mouth and swallowed. “How do you know?” he asked. “Because I certainly didn’t, and you’d think I’d know those sorts of things.”

Geralt opened a drawer of his desk and slipped the pendant inside. “It’s none of your business how I know,” he said gruffly. “I just know.” He walked around the desk, past Jaskier, then said, “Now, if you’ll excuse me, I need to see to my crew.”


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I swear there will be a Plot, but for AUs I always feel the need to have a ton of setup. So. That’s why there hasn’t been much of a Plot so far.  
> Also! Enjoy some Geralt POV!!

The whole thing was ridiculous. Fucking ridiculous. Why Geralt had to be stuck with a  _ prisoner _ , a prisoner who couldn’t work, couldn’t cook, couldn’t sail, didn’t appear to have any interest in learning how to do any of those things, and frankly, probably spent a lot of precious time being seasick, was beyond him. He supposed this was the work of the gods, or fate, or something. Punishment for his sins, or something.

He’d let Lambert, whose idea it had been to bring the man to Geralt, know exactly how displeased he was with the whole thing. Lambert was a good man, great to have on his crew, one of the best, but this was ridiculous. Fucking ridiculous. He had to have a talk with him about attitude and following orders.

Knowing Lambert, though, he’d just insist that  _ technically, _ he hadn’t  _ disobeyed _ any orders, because the standing orders were always to dispose of captain and crew, and this man clearly wasn’t the captain, and he clearly wasn’t part of the crew — the idea of that man being a sailor was  _ laughable, _ honestly — and thus he was following orders. To the letter. That was the way Lambert worked. Fantastic sailor, fantastic swordsman, fantastically loyal, even more fantastic pain in the ass. It was just like him to bring a passenger — a fucking  _ passenger _ — back as a prisoner instead of just killing him or throwing him overboard.

And now he was keeping said passenger alive, and he wasn’t even sure why. In the few short minutes that he’d talked to the man, to Jaskier, he’d been in turn more annoyed and more interested than he’d ever been about any other prisoner he’d ever had the misfortune to interact with. The man wouldn’t shut up. Just a constant stream of chatter, mostly nonsense, without any particular subject. The sort of talking that was simply to fill silence, not to actually impart any useful information. The sort of talking that Geralt actively avoided. But then the man had turned around and had been wearing an amulet, not one of the cheap ones used to trick fools out of their money. No, this was a real thing, old and powerful, for protection against curses. He wondered vaguely if the man was often put in a position where people tried to curse him, then put the thought from his mind. It didn’t matter to him  _ why _ the man was wearing an amulet; it only mattered that the amulet was taken. That was the deal. Any and all cursed, enchanted, or otherwise magical items that found their way onto the  _ Roach _ had to be taken.

He heard a door shut behind him, and footsteps approaching. Wheeling around, he saw Jaskier tentatively walking towards him, hands in the air in a placating gesture, one that was almost certainly meant to reassure him that he was harmless.

“What are you doing?” Geralt asked shortly. He wasn’t one for talking all that much in the first place, and he especially didn’t want to talk to this man. Although it probably didn’t matter whether he talked to this man or not. Jaskier would probably do all the talking for him.

Jaskier looked embarrassed, and ever so slightly terrified. He really should have been displaying more fear, Geralt thought. Anyone else would be knock-kneed, trembling from head to toe, too frightened to say anything beyond what they were forced to squeak out. This man seemed nervous, certainly, but not that wild-eyed fear that Geralt was accustomed to. It was… different.

“Well, you never said I had to stay in your, in your office or quarters or whatever it is. And, you see, I’d rather stay out in the open air if you don’t mind, travelling by ship really isn’t something I’m accustomed to, you understand, and I’m fine as long as I’m in fresh air, but–”

“You’re seasick?” Geralt cut him off brusquely, hoping the man would figure out that he should maybe get to the point.

“What? Oh, no, I mean, there’s a possibility if I stay inside for too long, or if it’s a particularly warm day or something, but–”

“Then go back. I’ll get back to you.”

“But there’s nothing to do there, and frankly, I’m starting to get bored of this whole “prisoner” thing, and I want to know if you maybe took a lute as part of your, er, loot?” He paused at that, a self-satisfied grin forming on his face, then added, “Only it belonged to me, and it would be much less annoying if I could have it, because then I could, you know, play it.” He watched Geralt expectantly, almost like a puppy.

“It would be less annoying for me if you waited patiently,” Geralt replied, his voice short. The man was either incredibly brave or incredibly stupid, and Geralt was leaning more and more towards that latter option.

The man smiled, a nervous thing, but still not nervous enough, given his predicament. “I don’t really go in for that,” he said. “Patience has never quite been my thing.”

Ah. One of those people. Spoiled rich brat, bored, so he booked passage on a ship with hopes of high adventure and romance, too stupid to understand that this wasn’t the next step on some grand adventure full of mystery and intrigue and beautiful love interests, but that he was now the prisoner of a crew of pirates.

“I don’t know if there was a lute or not,” Geralt replied. “I had other business to attend to.”

“What, like killing the captain of the  _ Posada?” _ Jaskier asked, and something like fear, or maybe it was anger, flashed in his blue eyes.

Geralt paused and considered. “Yes,” he finally said. “Like that.”

“You didn’t have to do that. He was a good man, he had a family, he–”

“He knew the dangers of sailing a merchant vessel,” Geralt cut him off. “Pirates have always been a risk. We have to make a living too, somehow.”

“You could try engaging in an honest profession, maybe,” Jaskier retorted. “Become actual sailors, join the navy or something.”

“And answer to a monarch who only has their own interests in mind?” Geralt paused. “I’m not going to debate ethics with you. You know nothing about me, and I need to go talk to my crew.” He was going to murder Lambert, he really was. He turned back around and continued walking along the deck, trying to find Lambert.

When he turned his head to the side, Jaskier was walking next to him, arms crossed over his chest, his doublet partially unbuttoned, showing off an embroidered chemise underneath, like he didn’t have a care in the world.

“Why the fuck are you following me?” he snapped.

Jaskier shrugged. “Nothing better to do until I get my lute back. If I find it was left on the  _ Posada, _ I’ll be seriously miffed. I thought I’d bother you until I get it back.”

Geralt grunted. He wanted to groan, but he didn’t want Jaskier to have the satisfaction of knowing that he was doing a really good job at annoying him. “You know I could kill you where you stand?”

“Oh, of course, so could any other sailor aboard this ship.” He offered Geralt a sly smile. “But you won’t. And neither will any of the others.”

“What makes you so sure?”

“Well, you would have killed me already. I’m assuming you’re keeping me around because you think I have information or something, which I suppose I should tell you right now, I don’t. Hate to disappoint. And I know that might cut my life off rather abruptly, but I swear it’s the truth and I’d still very much rather stay alive.” He paused, but the silence didn’t last, unfortunately. “I can, however, offer you fame and fortune. At least to some degree. I’m Jaskier, after all.”

“You said that already. You’re a fucking buttercup?”

He didn’t even blush. “Well, it’s what most people call me. In Temeria, I’m known as Dandelion, but I haven’t played there in, what, five years? Everywhere else, I’m known as Jaskier.”

“And?”

Jaskier’s eyes widened in some combination of surprise and offense, like he was personally affronted that Geralt didn’t know his name. Geralt didn’t know how to explain to the man that, unless he was a king, there was no reason for Geralt to know who he was.

“I’m famous, Geralt,” he said, and Geralt tensed, ever so slightly, at hearing his name come out of this strange man’s mouth. He really shouldn’t have told Jaskier his name, now he really couldn’t return the man home. That had been his plan, actually. Maybe demand a ransom, but eventually return the man safe and sound back to his home, or at least, back to shore. But he’d stupidly told him his name, his real name, all because he didn’t want to be called the White Wolf, or the Butcher of Blaviken, or whatever other alliterative nonsense people had come up with to refer to him in place of his real name.

Geralt’s mind finally registered what Jaskier had said, and he tensed again. He was going to kill Lambert, he really was. A prisoner was one thing. A wealthy prisoner was another thing. A famous prisoner was a completely different thing. People would notice if someone famous went missing. And Geralt had gone and told him his real name. 

This was going to shit.

Then again, he’d been on the  _ Posada, _ which wasn’t a luxury ship by any consideration, and he was being remarkably quiet about  _ why _ he’d booked passage on the  _ Posada, _ and Geralt made a point to only attack ships that weren’t supposed to be carrying passengers, because it was far easier that way, much less bloody, and really, this was all remarkably suspicious behavior from someone who was supposedly famous.

“You’re bluffing,” he said.

“Why would I be bluffing?” Jaskier exclaimed indignantly, his eyes, as bright blue as the sky, wide. “And how do you  _ not _ know? I’ve played in every court on the Continent, published books of ballads,  _ reshaped _ songwriting as it is known today, completely  _ revolutionized _ the use of folklore in songwriting! I’m the youngest guest lecturer to ever grace the halls of Oxenfurt University! Geralt, I’m quite probably the best-known bard in recent history, and frankly, I’m offended that you think I’m bluffing.”

“So Jaskier is… what is it, a stage name?” Geralt asked, then immediately cursed himself for egging the man on.

“Of sorts,” the man replied, shrugging in what he clearly thought was a modest way. “It was a nickname I picked up at university, and I kept it because, well, it was catchy. People remember someone named ‘Jaskier,’ it’s short and unusual and easy to pronounce. It’s easier to remember one name than two, which is why I’m more popular than, say, Essi Daven, who is quite possibly as talented as me. She has her real name, plus a nickname, and it tends to confuse people.”

“And your real name?”

The smile on Jaskier’s face flickered. “Look, we don’t need to get into any of that, do we? I’m known as Jaskier by everyone, and anyway, I don’t want you big, strong, scary pirates bothering my family.”

“I told you my real name, and that could lead to navies being sent out after me.”

Jaskier considered this. “If I tell you my real name, will you find my lute?”

Geralt grunted. “Fine. If it’s on this ship, I will get it to you. If it isn’t, you’ll just have to be fine without it.”

“Alright.” Jaskier paused, opened his mouth, closed his mouth, licked his lips, opened his mouth again, and finally said, “Julian.” He looked at Geralt expectantly, like he was hoping for some dramatic response, but Geralt just looked back. “Julian Pankratz,” he added, his voice melancholic. “You can see why I would want a stage name.”

Geralt grunted noncommittally. “I’ll see if I can find your lute,” he said, and walked away.

He was going to kill Lambert. He really was.


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I can’t believe how many people are subscribed to this, like it’s absolutely warmed my cold heart, I normally write for really tiny fandoms so this has me shocked and I’m just feelin real ❤️❤️💓✨💕💞💖♥️💗💓❤️❤️✨  
> Big hugs and kisses to all of you, hope this brings some joy!

Lambert was sitting in his hammock, sharpening a dagger when Geralt found him. He looked up in a way that could only be described as lazy, but Geralt knew he was anything but. The man was like a brother to him, one of the few people he really trusted, but that didn’t mean he wasn’t driven insane with annoyance by him for at least half of all his waking hours. He was younger than Geralt but just as tough, he was of the opinion that manners were for lesser people, and picked arguments with nearly every order Geralt gave. Geralt wouldn’t trade him for anyone else.

“What brings you down here, Captain?” he asked, his eyes flickering from Geralt to Jaskier, still doggedly following him. There was an air of lazy insubordination in his tone, like he was trying to pick a fight but had no reason to do so, and so would instead be sullen and unhelpful.

Geralt ignored the tone of voice and instead jerked his head back towards Jaskier. “He says there was a lute on the ship. Thought he could have it while I have a few words with you. If it wasn’t left to sink with the ship, that is.” He ignored the small, dramatic groan that Jaskier let out at the thought of his lute being sunk with the  _ Posada. _

A slow smile that Geralt didn’t like, didn’t like one bit, spread across Lambert’s face. “I don’t know,” he said. “There was so much going on. It might have been thrown in the ocean. Or left behind. Same end result.”

There was a sharp intake of breath from Jaskier, almost a gasp, but not quite. Out of the corner of his eye, Geralt could see the man’s hands go to his mouth, as if in horror. Probably just being dramatic. It was just a lute, after all.

But he also knew Lambert had decided to wind the poet up for reasons of his own. Boredom, perhaps. He held up a hand before Lambert could say anything else. “Where did you put the lute?” He leveled his best glare at the man. “Unless you didn’t oversee the loading of the ship like I specifically commanded you to.”

Lambert groaned and ran a hand across his scalp. “Fine. It’s below deck, sitting in a coil of rope to keep it from falling over. We aren’t entirely stupid, it looked valuable.”

Jaskier let out an audible sigh of relief, and Geralt did his best to keep the annoyance from his face. Did the man have to be so loud? Was it just in his nature to constantly do things that drew attention to himself? 

“Next time, don’t be such an ass,” Geralt said. “Is there someone who can take the prisoner to the lute? I want to talk to you.”

“Yeah.” Lambert jerked his thumb behind him. “Coen! Got a job for you!”

So Jaskier left with Coen, already talking excitedly about his lute and the songs he’d written, and how this whole experience would be fantastic for inspiration, really, now that he’d gotten past the terror of thinking he’d be murdered where he stood, and Geralt grimaced. He felt bad for Coen, but not bad enough to go with Jaskier himself.

“So,” said Lambert, raising his eyebrows and settling back in his hammock. “You kept the prisoner.”

“I’m hardly going to murder a man in my quarters, now, am I?” Geralt replied shortly. “Why didn’t you just kill him when you found him?”

“You said to kill the captain and the crew,” Lambert said, exactly as Geralt had predicted. “The man clearly isn’t the captain, and he clearly isn’t the crew. Fell out of my orders. A job for the captain. Clearly, I would have been wrong to shoot him.”

Had Geralt been the sort of man who groaned when annoyed, Geralt would have groaned. Geralt was not the sort of man who groaned when annoyed, and so he did not. That didn’t mean that the urge to groan was not constantly present when Lambert started talking. As it was, he fixed Lambert with a stare that would have made a more cowardly (or perhaps more intelligent) man quake with fear. Lambert did not quake with fear, he merely folded his arms under his head and returned Geralt’s look.

“I don’t want to kill people unnecessarily, Lambert, you know that,” Geralt said quietly.

“Then don’t kill him. Easy. Hold him for ransom or some shit. Or, if you’re feeling particularly generous, just drop him off at some port somewhere and let him go free.”

“I can’t.”

Lambert fixed him with a new look. “Why not?”

Geralt let out a huffing noise, somewhere between a sigh and a grunt. “He knows who we are, and he knows my real name. Not safe.”

That got Lambert to sit up. “You did  _ what?” _ he asked, the incredulity evident in his voice.

“I told him my name,” Geralt repeated. “You heard me. I was trying to be polite, find out what I could about him. See why he was wearing an amulet. You noticed that?”

“That’s why I sent him to you,” Lambert confessed. “Set my medallion off.”

“And now he knows my name and can identify me. I can’t send him back.”

“Kill him,” Lambert suggested, leaning back in his hammock. “Can’t say anything when you’re dead.”

He should have known Lambert would suggest the most drastic measure first. He knew Geralt wouldn’t actually kill Jaskier unless it was actually necessary, because he knew Geralt was cautious and didn’t like killing “innocents.” His rebuttal to this was that ship’s passengers knew the dangers of pirates when they booked passage on ships, and thus it didn’t matter if they were killed. It was safe to suggest murder, because he knew Geralt wouldn’t follow through with it lightly.

And, true to form, Geralt shook his head. “I don’t want to kill him. I as good as told him I wouldn’t.”

“And you couldn’t ever go back on your word.” Lambert snorted. “You’re  _ soft.” _ The way he said it made it clear that he thought this was a problem.

“I’ll be sure to tell that to the next sailor I kill,” Geralt retorted, his voice gruff. “And I won’t go back on my word unless I absolutely must.”

Lambert groaned and stretched out on his hammock. “It’s your own damn fault, Geralt. If you want to bellyache to someone, find Eskel or Coen or someone who cares. Go back to Vesemir.”

Geralt paused. “You’re right,” he finally admitted. “But you’re still going to be paying for this over the next few weeks.” He turned on his heel and strode out of the crew’s quarters.

“What else is new?” Lambert muttered. Geralt ignored him.

—————

The lute was annoying. If Geralt had thought Jaskier had a tendency towards being annoying before, he had been granted an entirely new window through which to view this, this  _ bard, _ and it was somehow even more annoying than before. And not just by a little bit.

The incessant talking was still there, yes, when he wasn’t busy singing everything instead. It was like living in a damn musical, between the constant singing (half of which seemed expositional, in which Jaskier sang what he was doing, as he was doing it, in case anyone with him was an utter imbecile) and the way Jaskier stumbled around the ship, bumping into anyone and everyone. He  _ had _ to be doing that deliberately, he just  _ had _ to. No one could be out on a ship this long without figuring out how to walk across a fucking  _ ship. _ But no, he had to stumble and trip and fall, all in the most dramatic ways possible, relying on the goodwill and muscles of the sailors. And, on several occasions, Geralt even found himself catching the bard.

Those were the worst moments, Geralt found. It undermined his authority with the crew (what authority he had, anyway. He’d grown up with most of those men, and while they listened to him, there was a whole lot more teasing and bilge anytime he caught Jaskier in his arms.), and Jaskier would always lightly touch his arms in a way that left him feeling, well… not uncomfortable, not exactly, but he wasn’t sure how else to explain it. It was an unusual feeling, one he didn’t think he’d ever felt before, like there was something with wings in the pit of his stomach.

Now that Jaskier was convinced that he wouldn’t be killed, any and all fear, nervousness, anxiety or trepidation he might have felt at first disappeared faster than a demijohn of rum shared among the crew, and he now was tripping everyone up, begging to see the world from the crow’s nest, annoying whoever was at the wheel, and constantly asking Geralt questions about pirates and treasure and raids and when they’d next go ashore. Because he wouldn’t be killed, he assumed that he’d be set free whenever they next stopped for supplies.

Which was why Geralt invited him into his quarters not long after the lute was returned. He needed to have a talk with the poet.

“I haven’t been in here since… well, since the day I arrived,” Jaskier said breezily, although the smile momentarily dropped from his eyes as he spoke. He talked all the time, far too much for Geralt’s liking, but he rarely spoke of the  _ Posada  _ and its crew. And he never mentioned his home. It was an interesting fact, if Geralt cared enough to think about it. Which he didn’t. Obviously. Instead, he would ramble inanely for hours about exploits he’d had back on land, or flirt with the crew, or come up with new seafaring rhymes. “You aren’t going to give me back my supposedly magical pendant, are you? Only I’d really rather I got it back. You know how it is.”

“I don’t.”

The bright look on Jaskier’s face dimmed, ever so slightly. “Well, it’s mine,” he said. There was a stammer in his voice, but only a tiny one. “I don’t like having my things being taken from me.  _ And _ you gave me back my lute, so obviously you’re okay with me keeping my things, so I don’t see why you had to steal it from me, and–”

Geralt held up a hand. “Enough.”

Jaskier’s voice trailed off, and he watched Geralt. His bright-blue eyes were big, and Geralt was reminded of a puppy.

“I’m not here to talk to you about the amulet. It’s non-negotiable. Call it your ticket fee.”

“Yes, but  _ why _ is it non-negotiable, and why can’t I just pay for it some other way? I’ll have money once we get back to the Continent, I did tell you about the whole ‘famous’ thing.”

“Sit down,” Geralt said, indicating the chair and very much ignoring Jaskier’s continued babbling.

Jaskier sat, though not without putting a sulky look on his face; his cheeks puffed and his lower lip jutted out, and in that moment, he somehow managed to become even less threatening.

“I’m not here to talk about the amulet. I need to talk about your return to the Continent.” He sat down behind his desk, hand situated on the hilt of his sword, ready to draw it at a moment’s notice. He didn’t think the bard would get violent, but he couldn’t ever be certain.

“Oh! Oh, that’s alright, then!” Jaskier’s face brightened noticeably, the sunbeam smile back. “When will we be back? When can I go home?”

Geralt let out a heavy breath, the closest he’d ever gotten to a sigh. “It’s not that simple, bard.”

“Why not? Drop anchor wherever it is you pirates do, let me go free! The songs I’ll write about this adventure, oh, the world will never forget you, I promise you that.”

That was the problem, Geralt wanted to say, but he held his tongue. He was good at holding his tongue. He couldn’t have some loose-lipped bard singing songs about him, making him even more famous than he already was, letting slip details about himself or, even worse, his crew. He couldn’t let that happen. Couldn’t allow that to happen.

“You’re not going back to the Continent,” Geralt said gruffly.

Jaskier didn’t deflate. He didn’t get the pouty look back on his face. He didn’t get violent. He froze, the smile on his face suddenly stuck there. The only sign that he’d even heard was the sudden look that had entered his cornflower-blue eyes, the look of a frightened deer. There was a moment of silence, a long moment of silence. And then Jaskier said, in the world’s tiniest voice,  _ “What?” _

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So I swear other Witcher characters will eventually show up, I absolutely promise you, but a little more patience will be required. I have this fic about as well-planned as any of my fics, which is to say, not very much at all, but I do have a plot at least, and it does involve characters like Yennefer and Ciri. So I hope Lambert made y’all happy, and there will be more to come from other characters!


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I’m literally just updating this as I get more chapters written, there isn’t an actual updating schedule, I’ve had some extra free time the past few days, which is why this update is so soon on the heels of the last one.

It had been a beautiful day. Sunshine, warmth, soft breeze, turquoise waters, the whole shebang. And then Geralt had gone and  _ ruined _ it. It was damn inconsiderate of him, if he was being totally honest. (And Jaskier liked to think that, on the whole, he was mostly honest. Poetic license didn’t count as lying.) He didn’t even know what to say. He could feel his mouth opening and closing, like a beached fish, lying belly-up on golden sandy beaches. Or a gaping bard, sitting in a chair in the captain’s quarters of a pirate ship. Practically the same thing.

“Is this a ransom sort of thing? I have money, Geralt, I can make sure it’s paid,” he finally said, forcing himself to swallow, even though his throat suddenly felt constricted and dry, like someone had rubbed sand into his mouth. He  _ did _ have money. And his family had even more money. Perks of nobility.

But Geralt shook his head, golden eyes glinting in the filtered sunlight. It really wasn’t  _ fair _ how the sunlight played on the man’s features. He was the perfect sort of person to inspire poetry, and Jaskier had already composed two sonnets and a ballad about a golden-eyed hero, not that he had shared them with anyone just yet. He got the feeling the pirates wouldn’t appreciate their captain being romanticized in poetry, and he got the feeling that the captain wouldn’t appreciate having poetry being written about him.

None of that changed the fact that Jaskier was now being told that a ransom wouldn’t be enough to return him to the Continent, to his wandering and playing, gracing the courts and bedchambers of every kingdom he passed through. 

“Well, I’m hardly going to stay on this  _ ship _ for the rest of my life,” he said, managing to turn the sudden twisting feeling in his gut into a scoff. “I mean, it’s not like even  _ you _ spend your entire life on this ship. You have to leave it  _ sometimes.” _

“Are you done?” Geralt was sitting there, watching him, almost emotionless. Damn him. Jaskier was sure there was some kind of emotion underneath that stone-cold exterior, but there were moments, moments like this, where either Geralt was better at suppressing his thoughts than Jaskier had assumed, or Jaskier had to admit that he was wrong, and Geralt was just… feelingless. The look on his face was inscrutable, Jaskier realized. He liked that word, and he rarely got a chance to use it. He rarely found people who were completely and totally inscrutable. Maybe he just didn’t know Geralt very well yet. Maybe Geralt was very scrutable (was that a word? he wondered, then decided he didn’t care) to the rest of the crew.

“Only if you have something _ really  _ important to say,” Jaskier said. “Otherwise, I could keep going for hours.”

“I don’t have time for that,” Geralt replied.

“Then you had better hurry up,” Jaskier said. “I’m a busy man, I have songs to write and a lute to play, and–” He paused. “Well, actually, you’re probably busier than me right now. So continue, for your own sake.”

Geralt gave him a strange look. “I didn’t realize I needed your permission.”

Ah, right. He was a prisoner, and Geralt was the captain. It was easy to forget that the man in front of him literally had the power to decide whether he lived or died. Jaskier was used to being treated as either nobility or as a celebrity, not as a prisoner. (Not that the crew had done much to treat him as a prisoner. They’d been remarkably good-natured, all things considered. In some ways, they were even friendlier than the sailors back on the  _ Posada, _ if only because they didn’t immediately attempt to shut down his attempts at flirting, though Jaskier wasn’t sure if the pirates  _ knew _ that he was, in fact, flirting with them.)

“It’s too dangerous for me to allow you to go back to the Continent,” Geralt continued. “You know too much about my ship, my crew, and myself for that to be an option.” He leveled his golden gaze on Jaskier. It really was like molten sunlight was captured in his eyes.

“Even if I promise to never, ever give away identifying details?” Jaskier asked. And really, he didn’t want to give away identifying details. Geralt seemed a decent sort, no matter what the stories said. The crew was rough, but so was any crew. Or at least, that’s what Jaskier had been led to believe. No, the odd thing was that Geralt was  _ honest, _ which wasn’t a trait Jaskier had been expecting from a pirate captain. No, he wasn’t honest, Jaskier mentally corrected. He was verisimilitudinous. It was a good word, and Jaskier never got the chance to use it otherwise. (Oh, how he wished he could work it into a song, but so far, that ability had eluded him. It was his self-described singular failing as a songwriter.) Geralt at least gave the appearance of being true and honest, and really, that was good enough for Jaskier.

Of course, he didn’t know how to explain this to Geralt. At least, not in a way that would effectively get the man to believe him.

“I get the feeling that your idea of identifying details is very different from my own,” Geralt replied drily. “No one on the Continent can know anything about me or my crew.”

“Then I’m afraid you’re already fucked,” Jaskier said, keeping his voice light, conversational. He offered a smile, then realized that was probably not the right thing to do when telling someone that they’re fucked. “I mean, you’re already infamous. The White Wolf, the Butcher of Blaviken, the Witcher, and on and on and on. I mean, people have heard of you even where I’m from — and that doesn’t happen, let me assure you — and in my travels, I’ve heard stories that you’re a pirate lord. But the captain of the  _ Posada _ told me that those don’t exist, so that was probably just a story. If pirate lords  _ do _ exist, though, you would be a remarkable specimen of one, I mean, just  _ look _ at you…” Oh good gods, he was babbling again.

Geralt fixed him with a stern look. Sterner than his usual look, anyway. “I refuse to take you back to the Continent,” he said, and Jaskier wasn’t good at figuring out when to shut up usually, but there was something very  _ final _ in the way Geralt said that, and even though he opened his mouth to say something, he closed it again a moment later.

“I can’t keep you on the  _ Roach, _ either,” Geralt continued.

Jaskier felt a jolt in his chest; his heart began to pound. He wasn’t going to die, he wasn’t going to die, he wasn’t going to die, he wasn’t going to die–

Alright. He was probably going to die.

“What are you going to do, then?” he asked, his voice coming out breathy, choked.

Geralt let out a heavy sigh. Or, well, that’s what Jaskier was going to call it, but it was too grunt-y to be a proper sigh. “I’ve thought about it, and I’ve talked to my first mate, and we think it would be wisest to bring you to Kaer Morhen.” He watched Jaskier carefully as he said it, like he was gauging Jaskier’s reaction.

“Never heard of it,” Jaskier said brightly. He wasn’t going to die, and the fist that had been squeezing his lungs loosened. And then it tightened right back up, because if it was some pirate-y thing, then it probably wasn’t pleasant.

“That’s the whole point of Kaer Morhen,” Geralt said. “No one has heard of it. There’s a whole community there. You can play your songs for them.”

“What, so you’ll just make me, make me  _ disappear _ from the Continent? Become the next great mystery? ‘Jaskier, the Disappearing Bard!’ ‘The mystery of the missing Jaskier!’” He let out a laugh that was much more bitter than he’d been intending. “I’m sure I can come up with catchier titles if you give me the time. Point is, I refuse. You can’t do this to me. I won’t let you.”

Geralt stood, and Jaskier stopped talking. He could feel his fingers picking at the hemlines of his sleeves, nervous, frantic, but he couldn’t make them stop. 

“I think you’ll find that I can do whatever I think best,” Geralt said, and again, there was that _ finality _ in his voice, and his normally gravelly voice was even deeper, somehow. Threatening.

He swallowed, did his best to quell his fidgeting fingers (oh, now that was a nice alliteration, he liked that) and also stood. He was almost as tall as Geralt, even if he wasn’t as ridiculously muscular, and he managed to look him in the eyes, in those mesmerizing golden eyes. “You cannot keep me prisoner for the rest of my life, Geralt,” he said, and no matter how hard he tried to keep his voice even, he couldn’t help the wobble that slipped in when he said the captain’s name. “And if you know what’s best, like you say you do, then you won’t even try.”

“I’m trying to keep you alive,” Geralt replied, his voice almost a growl. For someone who apparently wanted Jaskier alive, he certainly seemed very angry about it.

“Why?” Jaskier spread his arms wide. “I’m alone, no one on the Continent knew that I was on the  _ Posada, _ I’m your fucking  _ prisoner, _ and I’m sure that me being here has caused more problems than anything. It would make more sense to just shoot me or stab me or drown me. It’s not like I can swim. But no, you have to keep me alive, and for what? So that I can go to a secretive, secret-y place and disappear from the Continent forever, leaving thousands of people to wonder what happened to me and allowing  _ Valdo fucking Marx _ to take my place? Ah, yes, what a wonderful plan! Why didn’t I think of it?” He paused, took a deep breath. When he spoke again, he was quieter. “Listen, I don’t care if you want a ransom or something. I swear I’ll never even tell anyone that I was captured by pirates. I never met you or your crew. Just let me go back. I was on my way home when the  _ Posada _ was attacked, anyway.”

“For someone who ran off on a ship without telling a soul, you’re anxious to be going back,” Geralt said, and he sat back down heavily. His hand was gripping the sword that was constantly strapped to his side, but he didn’t make a move to draw it.

Jaskier shrugged, remarkably nonchalant for how fast his heart was racing. “Enough… enough time has passed,” he said, trying to be vague, and then he sat back down, too, and covered his face with his hands, his elbows all over Geralt’s desk. “I can’t just… disappear.”

“You already did.”

He peeped at Geralt through his fingers. “Doesn’t count,” he mumbled. “I wasn’t gone very long, just a few months. I can’t disappear for the rest of my life.”

“Why not?”

“Oh, you know…” Jaskier let out a sigh and slumped even farther onto the desk. “I have things that need taking care of back home.”

There was a long moment of silence. Jaskier could feel Geralt watching him, even if he was mostly hiding his face from the man. He didn’t know how he felt about that. Over the past few days, he’d done his fair share of flirting with the entire crew, Geralt included because, really, what else was he supposed to do with his time? And while the captain had never gotten annoyed or angry with him, at least, not out loud, he likewise never encouraged it, shaking Jaskier off of him as often as possible. But Geralt often stared at him, he knew. He just wasn’t sure if it was because the flirting was having an effect on him, or if it was because he was the lone non-sailor in the crew, or if Geralt had been pondering the whole time what to do with him (his gut twisted again at the thought of never seeing the Continent again), or if maybe he was just staring off into space most of the time, and Jaskier happened to be in his line of vision.

Didn’t change the fact that Geralt had a very intense stare, one that Jaskier could imagine burning straight through something.

Geralt finally stood up. “I’ll talk to Eskel again,” he said, “But unless you can come up with a better reason for going back to the Continent, or come up with a better alternative to Kaer Morhen, my decision won’t change.”

He turned and walked out of the cabin, leaving Jaskier to sit.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Comments and kudos give me so much joy and also motivation! And if you want, you can find me on Tumblr @clockworkouroboros.


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I forgot about this fic for a hot second and I’m so sorry! Here’s another chapter, I promise there won’t be as long a wait for the next one!

Jaskier had decided — nay, it had been decided  _ for _ him, he couldn’t very well react any differently than this and still have any sense of self-respect, now, could he — that he was very put out with Geralt. More than that, actually. He was  _ miffed. _ The entire situation was unnecessary and downright rude, and if the other man had  _ any _ consideration for his feelings whatsoever, he wouldn’t be trying to force Jaskier into this sort of situation.

So he wasn’t speaking to Geralt currently. This didn’t seem to be bothering the pirate captain too much; he appeared to be of a taciturn disposition, responding to Jaskier’s questions and constant stream of conversation with mostly grunts, leaving Jaskier to interpret them as he saw fit. Maybe Geralt was even relieved, he realized, with something akin to annoyance. But he would miss it soon enough. He had been blessed by the voice of  _ the _ best bard to walk the Continent. Even if he was enjoying the silence now, he’d find himself feeling like he was missing something soon enough. Jaskier was sure of it.

And yes, giving Geralt the silent treatment wasn’t the  _ best _ plan for getting back to the Continent, but he wasn’t quite sure what else he could do, given the circumstances. The man was a pirate, he could get whatever treasures he wanted by stealing from an unarmed merchant ship, thus making him impervious to Jaskier’s attempts at bribery. He insisted that he didn’t like music, which put a stopper on Jaskier’s promises to compose a song for him. And he scoffed at Jaskier’s offers to help out onboard the  _ Roach _ in whatever ways he could. This had made Jaskier feel  _ very _ put out, but he couldn’t exactly blame Geralt, since he wasn’t a sailor. And anyway, Geralt had Lambert doing all the extra tasks, the ones that were easy but unpleasant, like cleaning seaweed out of the scuppers or (and this one Jaskier was fairly certain was unnecessary, at least while they were out at sea) cleaning the bowsprit. Surely, it would just get dirty again the moment Lambert stopped. After all, they were at sea, and the bowsprit was constantly being sprayed by saltwater. 

And really, Jaskier didn’t even  _ mind _ Lambert that much. Sure, he was the reason Jaskier was a prisoner, but he was also the reason Jaskier was still alive. Had the pirates not discovered him on the  _ Posada, _ he would be dead by now, and Lambert could have shot him where he cowered. Instead, he brought him to the  _ Roach, _ let him live to see another day, and while Jaskier certainly didn’t like the idea of living a long life without ever stepping foot on the Continent again, he also preferred living to drowning or being shot. (Although he still would have preferred to be run through with a cutlass. At least there would have been some element of drama then. But Lambert preferred guns.)

Besides, it wasn’t Lambert’s fault that he couldn’t ever go back to the Continent. The blame for that rested solely on Geralt.

Despite the fact that they were on a ship, Jaskier found it relatively easy to avoid the man, which was nice. There were plenty of other shipmates who were almost as sexy and much more receptive to flirting, and none of them were the reason he was going to spend the rest of his life a prisoner. (Although none of them were quite as sexy as Geralt. He wasn’t sure why. Maybe it was the blond hair and golden eyes combination, or maybe it was the gruff expression that was permanently stuck on his face, or maybe it was that gravelly voice.)

Still, the other sailors indulged him. They even seemed to like him alright. They would ask him for songs and stories, and they would clap along. Once, he hit upon a song they knew, and they joined in, voices rough but still mostly in tune.

He’d been on the ship for well over a week now, and in all honesty, now that Jaskier was going to be stuck as a pirate prisoner for the rest of his life, the crew had warmed to him considerably. It was like his situation on the _ Posada _ had been inverted: there, the crew had hated him; on the  _ Roach, _ the crew loved him. On the  _ Posada, _ the captain loved him; on the  _ Roach, _ the captain sure seemed to hate him.

It made no sense. Geralt acted like he hated Jaskier, but was going to all this extra trouble to make sure he didn’t end up dying. He’d given Jaskier the only cabin on the ship to sleep in, rather than throw him in the brig, and even though they’d only rationed food for the crew, Geralt made sure he got enough to eat. It was ridiculous, and Jaskier wasn’t sure why the man cared at all. He was just going to turn around and ignore him and roll his eyes at the lovely music with which Jaskier was gracing him. Or trying to grace him, anyway.

And since Geralt was ignoring him, despite Jaskier’s attempts to engage him in conversation, convince him to change his mind, continue to ask about the so-called amulet, since Geralt was doing his utmost to avoid him, then Jaskier was going to do the exact same thing. He was going to ignore Geralt right back. It wasn’t like it would be difficult. There were plenty of other people to talk to. Just because they weren’t quite as striking as Geralt, or as stoic, or have voices that were quite as deep and gravelly, didn’t mean they weren’t alright.

He’d thought it would be fine, ignoring Geralt. It wasn’t like he knew the man all that well. Of course, now that he was actually attempting it, it was much more difficult than he’d realized.

There were a few reasons for this, Jaskier reasoned. Firstly, there was the fact that, while there were other people to talk to, there still weren’t very many people on board the ship. Secondly, the ship itself wasn’t all that big. Oh, it wasn’t small, for a ship. But Jaskier had grown up in a manor that was larger than the  _ Roach. _ He was used to being the guest of kings and queens and nobles of varying degrees, being housed in their castles and palaces and mansions. Or alternatively, he was used to the freedom of the open road, being a traveling troubadour (oh, he liked that alliteration) with the stars as his roof and the ground as his bed. Not that he  _ liked _ having the ground as his bed, of course. He had some standards. But it was the idea behind it that he liked; that idea of being free and wild, unbeholden to anyone, the world at his fingertips.

And thirdly, there was the very, very tiny fact that Jaskier had an itty-bitty, tiny little infatuation. It was hardly his fault that Geralt was so tall and broad-shouldered, or that his eyes were so bright gold, or that he was so stoic and gruff, even while doing his best to be fair, or that he had shown Jaskier nothing but the utmost civility, more so than some nobles Jaskier had played for.

It didn’t mean anything, at least. Jaskier was certain of that. He was always falling in love with people, it didn’t mean it would last. His infatuations were intense and short-lived, so he didn’t bother pining, because he knew it would all end soon. And he really didn’t want to be the  _ ex _ of the most feared and fearsome pirate the world had ever produced.

So things continued, with Jaskier avoiding Geralt as best he could, and trying to find things to pass the time. He practiced his lute, he sang songs, he wrote, but the days were long and he didn’t exactly have any responsibilities that he needed to fulfill. He ended up playing cards an awful lot. And sometimes, if he was  _ really _ bored, he’d find a sailor without any extra chores to do, and, well. Just because he was infatuated with Geralt didn’t mean he couldn’t have fun with the other various good-looking, muscular men onboard the ship.

Everything was fine. Or at least, it was about as fine as it could be, given the circumstances. It was fine. And then the storm hit.

It hit in the middle of the night, but the pirates had been expecting it. The wind had picked up, and clouds were building in a large, dark mass on the horizon, and they’d been preparing, at least, as much as they could.

Jaskier had not been included in these preparations, because he had no experience at sea. He’d asked what he should do in the event of a storm, and he had been told (very gruffly, too) by Lambert that he should stay in his cabin unless water started to get in, in which case he should get up on deck, and they’d try to find a safer place for him. Anything else, he’d been assured, would be useless. He’d be in the way in a time of emergency, of crisis.

Sitting in his berth, ship rolling and boards creaking, rain pouring and pirates yelling, Jaskier tried everything he could think of to block out the noise. He plucked at his lute, his fingers running through arpeggios and half-forgotten etudes that he hadn’t played since his university days, but he couldn’t even hear the lute over the noise of the storm. He tried putting his hands over his ears, but that didn’t help, it just gave the noise a muffled quality, like he was underwater or in a tomb, and he was already feeling claustrophobic enough, thank you very much. He even tried blocking out the noise with bits of cotton in his ears, but that just muted the noise even more, and then he began to get paranoid. Every shout sounded like a sailor calling his name, and every peak of thunder sounded like the cracking of his lute.

Eventually, he gave up and just sat there in his berth, lute resting beside him, nervously picking at his already-short fingernails. He wondered vaguely if this would make for an interesting song, if they got out of the storm alive. Oh, not the sitting-in-his-berth-terrified thing, the pirate thing. Running around on deck, trying to keep the ship from sinking. He considered it, then cast the idea aside. The only good bits of songwriting that could come from this would be weather-related metaphors, he decided. Or perhaps he could write a sea shanty about sailing through a storm. He’d have to fact-check the words with one of the seamen, though. Probably with Coen; he seemed like one of the nicest pirates.

Melitele, that was an odd thought to have.  _ Coen was a nice pirate. _ Because apparently nice pirates existed. It was hard to believe Coen was probably a murderer several times over; he seemed far too innocent for that.

There was an annoying dripping noise coming from somewhere, breaking through Jaskier’s concentration, into his thoughts. It was very distracting.

A moment later, he remembered Lambert, running a hand over the short hair on his scalp, saying, “If any water gets into your cabin, even just dripping, it’s not safe. Head up to the deck and we’ll find a safer place for you. Anything other than that will just put you and the rest of us at a greater risk of being killed.”

Jaskier swallowed. It was more of a gulp, really. He’d really been hoping he’d make it through this storm without having to move. The ship was rolling and moving like a sick dog, and he didn’t know how he’d be able to move around and navigate through that.

Still. Dying at sea during a storm was quite far down the list of Jaskier’s preferred ways to die — no drama, no glory, just water and  _ glub glub glub _ — so he got up and hid his lute under his shirt, because that was staying with him, and he couldn’t risk getting it wet.

He opened the door, and made his way out of his cabin.


	7. Chapter 7

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I think of this AU as mostly lighthearted and then I read back over it and huh I sure am a jerk to Jaskier he just can’t catch a break

It took an unusually long amount of time to get to the deck of the ship. Jaskier shouldn’t have been surprised that; after all, they were in the middle of a storm bad enough to practically be a  _ hurricane, _ right? (Well, maybe not a hurricane, but it sure felt like one. Jaskier could admit, somewhere in the back of his adrenaline-filled, panicking brain that he didn’t know when a bad storm stopped being a bad storm and instead became a hurricane. He was from Lettenhove, it was landlocked, after all, he couldn’t exactly claim that he even knew what a bad storm  _ was _ by a seaman’s standards.

It also didn’t help that the ship was bucking and heaving and Jaskier wasn’t entirely steady on a ship at the best of times, and he was also trying to carry a lute under his shirt. He really needed to get a new case for his lute. What a shame the pirates hadn’t deemed his old one important enough to save after raiding the  _ Posada. _ He was stuck treating his lute like a baby and carrying it under his shirt if he wanted to keep it safe from the elements. (Not that he carried babies under his shirt. That would be weird and slightly creepy, especially given that he didn’t have any children. Of course, he reflected, one hand clutching at the lute through the fabric of his shirt, the other steadying himself against the wall, he might be carrying one of his baby relatives under his shirt. Jaskier had sisters, most of whom were married, and two of them had children already, barely old enough to toddle.)

_ Focus, Jaskier. _ He was contemplating his young nieces and nephews and whether or not he could or would carry them under his shirt, which was bizarre in and of itself, when he should have been paying attention to getting up on the deck, since it was apparently not safe to be in his cabin.

The sight on deck was one Jaskier wouldn’t have easily forgotten, if he could, y’know, actually see what was going on. It was pitch dark, the light of the moon and stars hidden, obscured by the black clouds out of which rain spat, keeping lanterns from staying lit. The ship was rocking dreadfully, and Jaskier nearly fell over on the slick surface of the deck, his hands immediately cradling the lute through the thin, billowy fabric of his shirt. His hair was getting drenched, falling into his face, obscuring his already obscured vision even further. There were shouts and the sounds of heavy footsteps running around him in all directions.

“Hello?” Jaskier called, although really, he felt that he was intruding on several far more important matters, matters that included keeping everyone alive and the ship in one piece.

A face loomed out of the darkness, scarred and beautiful. In a crack of lightning, Jaskier saw him: the White Wolf, Geralt, paused, his clothes dripping, his white hair plastered to his neck and the sides of his face, eyebrows lowered in an intense expression over his golden eyes. He was terrifying and beautiful, like a god or an angel, and Jaskier stumbled towards him, not quite sure what he was doing.

“Why are you up here?” Geralt asked him, shouting to be heard over the wind and the rain. Thunder boomed.

“Lambert told me–” His voice was cut off by another peal of thunder, echoing loud, making his ears ache and his teeth rattle. “Lambert told me to come up here if water started getting into my cabin. And, well, here I am.” If he didn’t get inside somewhere soon, his shirt wouldn’t do anything to keep his lute safe; he was getting soaked. He realized too late that he wasn’t speaking to Geralt. He was supposed to be giving him the silent treatment, convince the man to return him safe and unharmed to the Continent. If he could go back, he'd even willingly spend holidays back home in Lettenhove, he was that desperate. Well. He'd willingly spend holidays in Lettenhove if no one else invited him anywhere.

He decided, in the face of more thunder and lightning, illuminating Geralt like some vengeful god of myth, that he would temporarily suspend his silent treatment, at least until his life and his lute were no longer at risk of imminent death. He was petty, but he wasn't  _ that _ petty.

Geralt stopped what he was doing, eyes darting around, probably looking for someone to take Jaskier somewhere safe, and then he shrugged. “Follow me!” he shouted, his voice barely audible over the noise of the sea and storm, and he beckoned.

Jaskier took a step, and almost fell on the slick deck, steadying himself at the last moment with a hand on Geralt. Geralt seemed to react almost instinctively; his hands shot out and supported Jaskier, pulling him up.

An odd expression crossed the captain’s face, but he didn’t say anything. Instead, he slung Jaskier’s free arm around his neck (and that was  _ more _ than okay with Jaskier, really, because it meant he got to be pressed up against the side of perhaps the most beautiful man Melitele had ever seen fit to bless with life, and also quite probably the most muscular), half dragging Jaskier along. For his part, Jaskier did at least  _ try _ to walk; it was hardly his fault the deck was so slippery with pounding rain, a tempest of what he was sure was near-legendary size. (And it was hardly his fault that the man holding him up and nearly dragging him across the deck was, well, Geralt. Look at the man. Could anyone really blame him if he gave up trying to get a good foothold a few steps in?)

Geralt dragged Jaskier across the deck, opened the doors to the captain’s quarters, and shoved him roughly inside. “Wait it out in here,” he barked, his voice still difficult to hear over the noise of the storm. Dripping white hair stuck to his neck and face. “Try to get some rest. It isn’t like I’ll be using the hammock for a good while, anyway.” He slammed the door in Jaskier’s face, leaving him alone.

The thunder and lightning were louder up here than in the belly of the ship, where his cabin lay, the lightning flashes illuminating the room through the windows. Jaskier could see sailors running in all directions, all busy, all contributing — and he wondered again why he hadn’t just been killed. He certainly wasn’t complaining, but none of this made any sense. He wasn’t helping keep anyone alive during this storm, he was distracting the captain of the ship during one of those cliched “all hands on deck” moments.

He glanced around the room. Last time he’d been in here, Geralt had told him that he couldn’t ever go back home. Time before that, he’d been meeting Geralt for the first time, convinced he was about to die at the hand of some cruel, sneering, mustachioed pirate captain with a pet parrot and hooks for hands. Or a hook for a hand. He almost grinned at the memory. 

The captain’s quarters were still sparse, revealing very little about Geralt. There was a map on the wall, a hammock in the corner, a few chests, and a desk. A lantern hung near the door, lit, swinging wildly with the ship, casting long shadows over the rest of the room. There were no books, no globes, no treasures, unlike the captain of the  _ Posada. _ Jaskier got the feeling that Geralt wasn’t the sort of man to enjoy life’s pleasures. Or perhaps he just didn’t get the opportunity to enjoy life’s pleasures. What a shame, he reflected, then realized what he was thinking. The man had  _ taken him prisoner _ and wasn’t allowing him to ever be free, and he was sitting here mooning over him because he was gorgeous.

He set his lute in the hammock, his other hand instinctively going to his throat to fumble with — empty air. Geralt had taken his pendant. He had gone and taken it and refused to give it back, and put it in…

Put it in the desk in this very room.

It suddenly felt like it was staring at him. Geralt had just presented him with perhaps  _ the _ perfect opportunity to take it back. It wasn’t like he was stealing it, after all, Geralt was the one who had stolen it from him in the first place. He was just going to take it back. It would be fine. It wouldn’t even be missed in this storm.

He wished he could say he crossed to the other side of the room stealthily, but truth be told, the ship was moving so wildly that he half-stumbled, and was half-thrown across the room towards the desk. It took a few tries to pick the lock; it was a skill he’d learned as a young boy in efforts to get the candies the nursemaid locked away when he or his sisters had been bad. It had come in handy quite a lot since then, and it was coming in handy now, if he could keep his balance long enough to pick the stupid thing. He swore at it, even though historically that had never made a troublesome lock open for him.

After what felt simultaneously like hours and only a few milliseconds, he managed to get the drawer open. He’d missed the soft  _ click _ of a lock opening in the noise of the storm, but it slid open as the ship moved up a wave the size of a mountain. (Or at least, it was probably the size of a mountain. That’s what it felt like to Jaskier, who had to grip the desk to keep himself from falling backwards.) He glances anxiously at his lute, breathing a sigh of relief to see it still resting in the hammock, unharmed. Maybe the wave wasn’t  _ that _ big.

The desk drawer was a mess, but it was the sort of mess that was clearly brought on by the motion of the ship in the storm. Geralt appeared to be a very organized person. Hardly surprising, given everything Jaskier knew about him. 

“Oh,  _ yes,” _ Jaskier muttered, finding his pendant near the back of the drawer. It was nearly hidden behind a small gun. As he grabbed it and pulled it over his head, tucking it securely beneath his dripping shirt, he distractedly wondered just how many weapons pirates needed. Geralt never went anywhere without at least one sword, two if he could help it. And Jaskier knew most of the other pirates had swords, too, not to mention their impressive array of guns. He supposed being criminals made it something of a necessity to carry weapons, both to do their job and to stay safe.

He closed the drawer, not bothering to put anything back, since the ship was still moving around on the water like it was nothing more than a child’s toy.

But even as he crossed over to the hammock, sitting down in it and clutching his lute to his chest, it felt like the storm was possibly abating. Or at least, losing some of its fearful intensity.

He was about to lay down and even try to get some sleep, when he heard shouting and footsteps getting closer to the captain’s quarters. He sat up, fingers finding the stone of his pendant, then realized he couldn’t let them know he’d stolen it. He pulled his hand away.

The door opened, and two pirates appeared in the doorway, carrying a third between them. Jaskier scrambled to get out of the hammock, almost falling out of it in his attempts. “What happened?” he asked. His throat felt dry.

“Injuries happen,” Eskel, the first mate, answered him. He was dripping, even more than Geralt had been when he helped Jaskier. “We still have work to do, even if the storm’s going down. Do you have any medical knowledge?”

Jaskier swallowed, his throat even drier. “Yes, well, I was required to learn some at university before becoming a poet, and living on the road requires certain survival skills, but I don’t know that I’m  _ qualified _ as such to give medical help in something like this–”

“Shut up, bard,” said the other man, whom Jaskier now recognized as Lambert. “None of us are doctors, are we? And we’re all busy. There’s still a storm going on, even if it’s dying down. Make yourself useful.” He and Eskel hauled the man into the hammock, and Jaskier caught a glimpse of white hair, dripping and dirty.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Find me on tumblr @clockworkouroboros!


	8. Chapter 8

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> update time! featuring hurt Geralt!  
> There are some descriptions of injuries, but nothing super explicit or disturbing. Probably at the PG-level, in fact.

Geralt was unconscious. He had been since Lambert and Eskel brought him in, and he didn’t appear to be coming to anytime soon. Jaskier had stayed in the captain’s quarters with him because, really, he was the only one who  _ could. _ The others were all exhausted; the storm had raged far longer than anticipated, and some of the pirates hadn’t slept for over twenty hours.

Now, of course, the sea was calm and the sun was shining, like two hours ago it hadn’t been dark and windy and raining like the gods were spitting on them. Now, even the most exhausted of the pirates could collapse in their bunks and hammocks in their quarters and rest, for a few hours at least, and only a few men stayed, completing their watch.

Only Eskel had interrupted Jaskier, sometime after the rain stopped. He’d opened the door, his soaked clothes plastered to his body, hair dripping in his eyes. Eskel was a common-sense sort of person, a good choice for first mate, although Jaskier suspected he had the position because he and Geralt were so close that they were almost like brothers. Still, in this case, the nepotism (was it nepotism, he wondered, if they weren’t  _ actually _ related?) worked out quite well. Eskel was perhaps the most trustworthy, capable person on this ship other than Geralt himself. He was also an excellent kisser.

“Is he alright?” he asked, the words out of his mouth so fast that it took Jaskier a moment to even work out what he’d said. 

Once he parsed it out, he shrugged. “He hasn’t woken up yet. His breathing is steady, though, and I’ve taken care of all the wounds I can find–” He indicated the remains of his shirt, since he hadn’t been able to find any bandages. “You wouldn’t happen to have actual bandages somewhere, though, would you? Only some of them will need to be changed sooner rather than later, and I’m running out of clothes. I’d really rather not take off my trousers if I can help it, if only because I’m cold from all the rain.”

“They’re belowdeck,” Eskel replied, casting a distracted glance at Jaskier’s bare torso without the slightest hint of even a blush. “I’ll find someone to bring them up.” He rubbed at his eye, the good one, without the scar. “I don’t want to do this alone.”

Jaskier paused what he was doing long enough to place a reassuring hand on Eskel’s arm. “He’ll be okay. The wounds are shallow. He’s, uh–” He looked back at Geralt and hoped to Melitele that his worry wasn’t too obvious on his face– “He’s lost a lot of blood, but he should recover. I don’t think anything vital was damaged.” He looked back at Eskel. “What  _ happened?” _ he asked.

Eskel shrugged. “It was a shipwreck. I didn’t exactly get a chance to see, I just saw that he was suddenly unconscious on the deck, bleeding out.” His voice took on a hard, worried edge. “I can’t figure out what happened. I couldn’t find whatever it was he got hurt on.”

He turned to go, pausing just long enough to say, “I’ll find someone to bring up the bandages. Try not to let him die.”

“I wouldn’t dream of it,” Jaskier breathed, once Eskel had left the cabin. His hand found the pendant, which he’d stuck in his pocket once he’d taken off his shirt, and began rubbing at the stone with his thumb, something of a nervous habit.

He was still confused about it being a supposed amulet. He’d gotten the pendant from his parents before going to Oxenfurt, and it was apparently a family heirloom. Nothing special about it beyond its worth to his family. It was perhaps his one reminder of home that he actually treasured.

(Not, of course, that his home was a bad place. It was just interminably dull, and Jaskier really didn’t want to hang around in places that were so utterly boring. He was a man of a certain kind of adventure, the kind with high romance –– or even just casual shags, he wasn’t picky –– and very little  _ actual _ danger. This whole pirate-y business was even too much for him. He found himself a little too near to panicking far more than he wanted to admit.)

Geralt groaned from his hammock, and Jaskier rushed over, nearly tripping over his own two feet. He wished he could blame not having his sea legs, but that was unfortunately no longer an excuse; he’d long since gotten used to the soft rolling motion of the ship. No, he really was just anxious about getting to Geralt, making sure the captain was alright.

“Geralt. Geralt, are you alright?” he asked, his voice barely above a breath.

The captain groaned again, and his eyes opened ever so slightly, showing just the barest hint of gold. He mumbled something, but Jaskier couldn’t make out what he was saying.

“Hey. Hey, it’s me. Geralt, shh, it’s me, Jaskier. You’ll be alright,” he said, trying to make his voice sound soothing, placing a hand on Geralt’s bicep. “You were injured in the storm, but you’ll be okay.

“Where the fuck am I?” It was still a barely-audible grunt, but Jaskier could at least make out what he was saying.

“In your quarters,” Jaskier replied, still trying to be soothing. “You’re in your hammock, in your quarters. You got hurt.” He paused before adding, “A lot. In a lot of places.”

Geralt groaned again, moving his arm out from under Jaskier’s hand, cautiously moving around, finding the bandaged areas: shoulder, thigh, side, forearm. There was a small cut just at the base of his hairline that his fingers probed gingerly. “What  _ happened?” _ he grunted, the words coming out of his mouth in a way that sounded almost painful.

“You got hurt,” Jaskier said again. Geralt must be really out of it, he decided, since he had to keep repeating himself like this.

“I can  _ tell,” _ Geralt grunted, his face contorting in pain as he shifted in his hammock. He groaned once more, almost like a cry of pain, and sat up, swinging his legs over the side of the hammock. “Help me up,” he commanded gruffly. “I need to see to my crew. The storm…” With what looked like monumental effort, he stood up, grunting in pain and leaning heavily on his good leg.

“Ooh, no, you’re not ready for that,” Jaskier quickly interjected, immediately doing his best to support Geralt. They were nearly the same height, but the captain was still so much bigger than Jaskier; the bard wasn’t scrawny, but he certainly didn’t have Geralt’s layers of rock-hard muscle. He let out an involuntary  _ oof _ as he took the brunt of Geralt’s weight. “Sit back down, Geralt, you’ll hurt yourself some more, and you really don’t want that, do you?”

He could practically  _ hear _ Geralt roll his eyes. “I don’t need your help,” the captain replied gruffly, “And I certainly don’t want it.” He yanked himself away from Jaskier and walked over to his chair, limping heavily. “Leave me alone.”

“Of course!” Jaskier said quickly. “Only, I promised Eskel that I’d keep an eye on you. He’s worried about you, you know. As is the rest of the crew. And me, although I suppose I hardly count. You know, what with ‘being prisoner’ and all.” He let out a short, mirthless laugh. Before he could continue his rambling, though, he noticed Geralt giving him an odd look. “What is it?” he asked. “What’s wrong?”

Geralt continued to stare. If Jaskier didn’t know any better, he’d say Geralt was giving him a once-over, looking him up and down, golden eyes raking him over from head to torso to feet.

“Where’s your shirt?” Geralt finally asked.

(He was being unusually talkative, Jaskier decided. Geralt rarely answered his questions, and never asked any himself. Maybe almost dying had made him turn over a new leaf.)

Jaskier looked down at his bare chest in something almost like surprise. In truth, he’d almost forgotten it was gone. He looked back up at Geralt, the realization that the captain  _ had _ been looking him up and down slowly dawning on him. “Well, I couldn’t find any bandages, and  _ something _ had to be done about your wounds,” he said slowly. “I improvised.” He paused. “How did you get hurt, anyway? I was talking to Eskel about it and he doesn’t seem to know, and neither does Lambert, and I haven’t seen anyone else.”

Geralt was silent for a moment. Then, with effort, he said, “It doesn’t matter. It was a storm. People get hurt in those. Especially on the high seas.” He wrenched his gaze away from Jaskier and began digging through one of his desk drawers. Jaskier held his breath, hoping his theft would remain undiscovered, for at least a little while longer.

He stayed, although he did perch himself in Geralt’s hammock, because it was nearby. He had to make sure Geralt didn’t collapse or something. Though he didn’t see what use he would be if that happened, since Geralt was about a million times heavier than he was, and he couldn’t possibly hope to carry –– or even drag –– the man anywhere. He got the feeling that, even in his weakened, injured condition, Geralt could probably crush him as easily as most people could squash a soft piece of fruit in their fingers.

He probably shouldn’t have found that bit of information incredibly sexy. What could he say? He loved a bit of danger.

Without looking up from what he was doing, Geralt said, “You can leave now. I’m fine.”

“Are you?” Jaskier sized him up, looking at the bandages, at the dried blood in his hairline, at the haggard expression on his face. “Could’ve fooled me.”

“I don’t need mothering.”

Jaskier couldn’t help but suppress a smile at that. “Listen, if you think I’m  _ mothering _ you, you’ve got another think coming.” He paused. “Is that even proper wording?” He shrugged. “Doesn’t matter. It sounds good. Regardless, you’re  _ injured, _ Geralt. It’s not mothering, it’s making sure you don’t die. How careless of your own health and safety  _ are _ you, and how irresponsible are you?”

Geralt looked up at that, deadly serious. His golden eyes were hooded, in shadow. “Since when did you get to accuse me of being irresponsible?” he asked.

Jaskier’s fingers found the pendant in his pocket and began fidgeting with it. He really shouldn’t have said anything to bother Geralt, now he’d really be in trouble. On the bright side, maybe he wouldn’t be brought to the secret island of Kaer Morhen; maybe Geralt would instead bring him back to the Continent. He’d be alright with that.

(Although Geralt was much more likely to kill him outright, he supposed. Yeah. He really shouldn’t bother the captain.)

“You’re being careless,” he responded. If he was going to dig his own grave, he might as well make it a good one.

(That analogy wasn’t a very good one, he decided, but it was the best he could do under the circumstances. His internal monologue wasn’t very helpful most of the time, and it tended to perform even worse under pressure.)

Geralt’s eyebrows were raised, but he didn’t say anything, so Jaskier plunged on, heedless of danger. Or rather, he was heeding the danger, just choosing to ignore it. “If you’re injured, you need the proper attention and care to ensure that they heal properly,” he continued earnestly. “And insisting that you’re fine when you’re really  _ not _ and it’s obvious that you aren’t is really very irresponsible. And when you’re the captain of a ship, it’s twice as irresponsible, because you’ve got a whole crew who rely on you, so if you refuse to take care of yourself or let someone else take care of you, then you’re jeopardizing the crew’s wellbeing as well as your own. Didn’t anyone in pirate school ever teach any leadership seminars?”

He paused to take a breath, and in that pause, Geralt let out a growling sort of noise. It took Jaskier a moment to realize that it was some approximation of a laugh, and really, he only figured that out because the noise died away quickly, replaced by Geralt wincing in pain. Right. He’d been injured on his side.

“Come on, Geralt,” he said, immediately out of the hammock and at the pirate captain’s side. “You need rest.”

And to his surprise, Geralt got out of his chair with a groan and allowed Jaskier to steer him back to the hammock.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> You can find me on Tumblr @clockworkouroboros!


End file.
